I Look for You All Day

I look for you all day:

A stranger with dirty-blonde hair
about yay high, with
aviator sunglasses
Turns around
and
it’s
not
you.

A silver dove updarts—
a whoosh of wings—
only
to
return

It pecks and coos at the bird-seeded grass,
and pauses,
to
tell
me
something
important

“Hello, Lucas—“
I whimper.
It responds with flight:
it,
too,
has
gone
away

I listen for you all day:

I say something hilarious
and among the voices of boisterous laughter,
I cannot distinguish yours—
I wonder if you’re really dead,
Or if I’m
Just
not
funny
anymore.

Where is your
loud,
unsolicited
opinion?

I touch someone else—
their hot skin is real enough
to
be
yours

But they don’t remain like
you
would.

I taste an amazing chicken wing,
realizing that you weren’t the one to
talk me into the
spiciest
sauce

Everything fatty and sweet and creamy and exotic
and delicious
tastes
too
much
like
you.

This place smells like dog and marijuana—
you won’t defensively point to an
empty
febreeze
bottle
anymore.

We won’t talk about how horrible cigarettes are
on
our
smoke
breaks
anymore.

You won’t call me at 9:00 AM Sunday
to ask if I have a magnifying glass.

You won’t bring me an
unexpected
99 cent
burger
anymore.

Your eyes won’t well with tears at the
drop
of
a
hat
anymore.

You won’t change my 8-year old tire
in
the
snow
anymore.

You won’t show up with a U-Haul
and say
“Let’s change your life”
anymore.

My ribcage won’t be crushed by
your
arms
anymore.

My ribcage is crushed because your arms
aren’t
holding
it
together
anymore.

You won’t
call
me
back.

Anymore—

It’s better when
I don’t
think
about
it.

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